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When we moved to Carbon Canyon in 1969, central Malibu boasted not much more than a lone supermarket, a couple of gas stations and a lumberyard.

With the hospital damaged, a medical triage center started at the local lumberyard.

Near the granny flat where I lived before transferring to Patrick Henry were a lumberyard, a Kwikset factory and a trucking depot where my dad would pick up cargo containers.

The floor and sides of the tub were constructed from yellow-cedar wood he found at a lumberyard in Tacoma.

I was raised in a run-down granny flat in Anaheim a stone’s throw from a lumberyard, the only place my immigrant parents could afford when they married in 1978.